


John's Agony

by Mrs_SimonTam_PHD



Series: Post Reichenbach Songfics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breaking Benjamin, Dear Agony, Gen, John's depressed, Post-Reichenbach, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD/pseuds/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Post Reichenbach. </p><p>Because dead men don't send text messages</p><p>Inspiration: "Dear Agony" by Breaking Benjamin</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Agony

_Dear agony_

John limped up the stairs to 221B Baker Street, his shoulder acting up painfully.

It’s been two years since Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s, saying he was a fraud, and Moriarty was made up. . .

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the images that came up as he trudged up the seventeen stairs to the flat. He couldn’t force himself to leave, but a lot of Sherlock’s stuff was packed up.

_Just let go of me_

He didn’t pack everything of Sherlock’s, though. The skull still resided on the mantel, his coat and scarf still hanged by the door. His violin was over by the window, the last piece that Sherlock was playing on the music stand.

He went into the kitchen to make tea. He always made sure that plenty of Sherlock’s favorite tea was in the cupboard, as if the man were to come in a whirlwind and ask for some. Or, rather, demand.

_Suffer slowly._

Because of the Fall, John had seen no less than three therapists, his shoulder acted up more, his psychosomatic limp returned, and the nightmares got worse, as they now featured Sherlock jumping, falling, hitting the ground. Sometimes his nightmares of Afghanistan intertwined cruelly with the nightmares of Sherlock falling, making him cry out in terror, Sherlock’s name on his lips as salty tears made their way down his face.

_Is this the way it’s got to be?_

The kettle now on, John picks up his phone and sends a text to Sherlock. Different wording, same concept behind the message.

_I never stopped believing in you, Sherlock. You’re my best friend. And you’re absolutely bloody brilliant. I know it’s impossible, but stop being dead, you idiotic git. –JW_

John wishes he could’ve convinced Sherlock that he didn’t have to jump, that they could clear his name, that he could PROVE that, that he believed in him.

He believed in Sherlock Holmes.

He still does.

The kettle whistled, and he turned his attention to it, pouring himself a cup of tea. He went to the kitchen table, turning on his laptop and checking his blog. He knows not to expect a text back, even though he does.

Dead men don’t send text messages, though.

_Don’t bury me._

He writes more stories of him and Sherlock on it, now. Telling stories of times in the flat. Like the time he found the head in the fridge. All the times that Sherlock hacked into his laptop. The time he came off the tube, covered in blood and carrying a harpoon, declaring, “Well, that was tedious”.

Always ending with _I believe in Sherlock Holmes, and you should too. I believe James Moriarty was real. John H. Watson._

_Faceless enemy._

Lestrade came over often, and Mrs. Hudson often saw him, offering him a cup of tea and a chance to chat. Mycroft checked in on him, seeing how he was coping, John supposed. Molly calls, trying to joke and says that she has body parts for Sherlock to collect for experiments. He has dated since then, but depression was his enemy, and he could never let himself get too close. Probably a byproduct of having Sherlock ruin his dates and ensuring that he didn’t have a girlfriend for long.

_I’m so sorry_

John feels like it’s his fault that Sherlock jumped. That it’s his fault. Because he didn’t persuade Sherlock not to.

Every time he has the nightmare of Sherlock falling to the ground, he wakes up, crying and begging for Sherlock not to do it. He curls up in a ball, crying like a child, telling the night that he’s so sorry, that he couldn’t prevent his best friend from jumping. His therapist- well, one of them- said it was a guilt reaction, which is perfectly natural. But he’s still having them, and he’s not able to stop it.

_Is this the way it’s gotta be?_

He’s honestly bored, now. He longed for the excitement that the Army had given him, that Sherlock gave him. The adrenaline rush. He never pegged himself as an adrenaline junkie, but he supposed it made sense. That’s why he loved the bullets whizzing past him, as he tries to save someone’s life with minimal tools; that’s why he loved the three mile foot chases across London, chasing after a tall, pale man with curly black hair and quicksilver eyes, his navy blue scarf trailing behind him, yelling that the game was on, and dammit, John, run faster.

He’d give _anything_ to have Sherlock back.

_Dear agony._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are Shiny!


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